With a Tangled Skien

  "Yes, he—"

  "Oh, there's the Uchi-mata! Samurai himself couldn't have done it better!"

  They watched while Mars moved into the green-belts. They were trying to throw him and failing as dismally as the white-belts had, and had no better success in resisting the return throws.

  "That's amazing!" the brown-belt commented. "I've never seen someone give them a chance like that; usually they put them away as fast as they can. He's got a lot of confidence."

  "He should," Clotho said, though she was amazed herself.

  Then she saw Mars drop down. Someone had thrown him! But immediately the brown-belt opponent fell too. Both of them were lying on the mat.

  "Yoko-otoshi! The Side Drop!" the brown-belt exclaimed. "Beautiful!"

  "You mean it's supposed to look like that?" Clotho asked.

  "Of course. It's a sacrifice throw."

  "Oh."

  They watched several more standing throws. Then Mars went down again. He had his foot in the other's belly, and lifted him over so that he did a roll and landed on his back. "Tomoe-nage, the Stomach Throw," the brown-belt said.

  The throws continued as Mars progressed three-quarters of the way down the line. There seemed to be no end to them. But obviously the class was highly impressed.

  "Soto-makikomi," the brown-belt remarked as both men went down again. "I hate to take falls on that one! Of course it's a power-throw; there's not much stopping it once it starts. If he can do the next one, the Ukiotoshi—"

  It seemed to Niobe that the brown-belt who was Uke at the moment simply threw himself on the mat, but the one beside her whistled softly. "Perfect!"

  A black-belt came out of the line. Mars waited while the man tried a foot-sweep without success, then said, "Try another." There was a chuckle along the line.

  "What's so funny?" Clotho asked.

  "The situation. He's up to the thirty-seventh throw in the Basic Forty. That's Ushiro-goshi, the Rear Loin. It's a counterthrow following an attempted hip-throw. Clyde didn't try a hip-throw."

  Clyde tried a sacrifice throw, without effect; it was as if Mars were an immovable wall. There was another chuckle.

  Then, moving like lightning, Clyde tried a hip-throw— and Mars picked him up and threw him to the mat. Clyde had gambled and lost. He got up, bowed, and smiled; he didn't mind losing to an artist of that skill. "And he did it left-side," the brown-belt murmured in awe. "Clyde tried to fool him, left-side, and he was ready."

  "Left-side is different?"

  "And how! I really sweat on them!"

  The last man in the line approached and took hold, but declined to try a throw. "Randori," he said.

  "What does that mean?" Clotho asked.

  "That's our Yodan,"' the brown-belt said. "He's a top competitor; he doesn't like to do stationary throws. He prefers to counter, or to seize his opportunity. He knows your man will try the Yoko-gake, the Side Body Drop; he wants to make him do it in a moving situation."

  "Interesting," Clotho said, unenlightened.

  The two men moved about the mat, almost as if dancing together. Suddenly the black-belt screamed piercingly, his foot moving like lightning. But Mars' foot moved too, just as fast—and they both fell to the mat.

  The brown-belt shook his head. "Beautiful! He did it!"

  "But how do you know who threw whom? And why the scream?"

  The brown-belt smiled. "The scream was a kiai yell, to facilitate the throw. Didn't work, this time. And sometimes it can be hard to tell, on a throw. I saw a match once where the award was given to the wrong judoka, before the judges corrected it. But this one was a perfect Yoko-gake, no question."

  Indeed, the class seemed to know it. Mars returned to the center of the mat, and exchanged bows with the class. It seemed he had successfully run the line.

  "And he's not even tired!" the brown-belt murmured.

  Then Mars walked to the edge of the mat, stepped off, turned about, and bowed to it. "All right, girl," he said gruffly. "He has to meet you now."

  "He what?"

  "As your champion I conquered his class. I did not challenge Samurai himself. It is you who must meet him." He took her by the elbow, urging her forward. "Honor the tatami."

  Bemused, Clotho bowed and stepped onto the mat. "But I've still got your sword!"

  "Precisely. It's an outrage. Get out there." Like a zombie, Clotho walked across the mat. The class watched, unmoving.

  Is he crazy? Atropos thought. This girl doesn't know anything about swords, and she doesn't want to shed blood.

  It's probably an insult to the dojo to carry a weapon onto the mat, too, Niobe thought. But Mars must have a reason.

  Samurai bounded to his feet. In a moment his own sword was in his hand. "For this you must die!" he cried, striding forward.

  Are you sure we're immortal? Atropos thought nervously.

  Well... Niobe thought, abruptly uncertain. When she had been Clotho, she had never faced a test like this.

  But abruptly the red sword lifted in Clotho's hand. It was a heavy monster, but now it was featherlight. It assumed a guard position.

  "Get out of here!" Samurai cried, making a threatening gesture.

  The red sword moved to intercept his weapon. Metal clanged on metal.

  The enchanted sword has made us expert, Niobe thought, amazed.

  Goaded beyond reason by that gesture of defiance, Samurai attacked in earnest. He's as hot-tempered as she is! Atropos thought.

  Two of a kind, Niobe agreed.

  The red sword moved rapidly to counter the strike against it. Samurai struck again, and again the red sword blocked. He could not get through that guard.

  "But this is not what I want!" Clotho whispered. "This will never bring him to reason!"

  Indeed, the longer it continued, the more plain it was becoming that Samurai, for all his dazzling skill, could not penetrate the guard of Mars' sword. Samurai would very shortly look like a colossal fool.

  You've got two choices, girl, Atropos thought. Either attack, which means you'll probably kill him at one stroke, or—

  "No!" Clotho cried. She flung away the red sword and sank to her knees before Samurai. "Take my blood!"

  If he strikes, Niobe thought, alarmed, either we'll be dead, or he'll be ultimately humiliated.

  Samurai paused, as surprised as anyone. "You yield?"

  "Everything!" Clotho cried, the tears streaming down her face.

  Samurai paused. His fighting rage drained out of him almost visibly. Indeed, Clotho was a piteous figure of a woman.

  He held his sword to the side. A student hastily came to take it away. "Then I am satisfied," Samurai said, extending his hand.

  Clotho took it in both her own and kissed it.

  The harder they fall... Atropos throught wryly.

  "That isn't necessary," Samurai said, embarrassed. "Do not humiliate yourself more than is required." He drew her back to her feet, then turned and nodded to the class. Immediately they filed out of the room, each bowing as he or she stepped off the mat.

  Clotho found a hanky and dabbed at her face. "I'm sorry I—"

  "Accepted," Samurai said gently.

  "I wanted to be liberated, but—"

  "Liberation has its appeal, when understood," he said. "This is, after all, America. I would not have you other than you are. Will you join me for dinner this evening?"

  She smiled. "I will."

  They walked to the edge of the mat, bowed as they stepped off, and smiled at each other.

  Samurai glanced at the brown-belt, who remained in the room, standing beside Mars. "Convey his sword to the Incarnation of War," Samurai said. "It is a remarkable weapon."

  The brown-belt bowed himself onto the mat and hurried to pick up the fallen sword. But he was unable to; the thing seemed anchored in place. He strained to lift it, and could not.

  "Permit me," Mars murmured. He raised his right hand—and the red sword floated up and across the mat, dipped momentarily at its edge as if bowing, an
d moved to his hand. Mars gravely sheathed it.

  "And a remarkable man," Samurai said, exchanging bows with Mars. Then Mars turned and walked out of the dojo.

  Samurai turned to Clotho. "I regret that I mistook you. Yet is it acceptable for Fate to—"

  Clotho touched his lips with a finger. "I am just a woman—now."

  He nodded. "Tonight, then."

  "Tonight."

  Clotho walked out of the dojo. Outside, she extended a thread and ascended.

  "But we never got his commitment on the bomb," Atropos remembered.

  "We shall have it—tonight," Niobe replied. "And, unless I mistake Mars, he will give Samurai the secret of the finger-strike. As a token of esteem, not as a bribe."

  "I've got a lot to learn," Clotho said.

  And it was so—on all counts.

  Chapter 13 - COUNTERPLOY

  "We needed help on the last one," Niobe said. "Surely we'll need it on this one too!"

  "Who can help us with a Satanist?" Atropos asked.

  "My guess would be Gaea. She's generally considered to be the strongest of the Earthly Incarnations."

  "Nature? I thought Time was."

  "Chronos has the most potent single instrument, the Hourglass. But Gaea—" Niobe shrugged. "Let's ask her, anyway."

  Niobe took the body and slid the thread across to Gaea's vegetable mansion. They landed at the door.

  Sometimes it was difficult to reach the Green Mother, but that depended on the situation. Niobe remembered her journey with Pacian; Ge had known what she was doing that time!

  That's one fancy treehouse! Atropos thought.

  The leafy door opened, and Gaea stood there.

  Niobe froze. It was the same Green Mother she had known a quarter-century ago!

  "Why, it's Fate!" Gaea exclaimed. Then she squinted. "But a new Lachesis!"

  Gaea didn't recognize her! Of course Niobe knew she had changed considerably in the intervening period of mortality, and not for the better; why should anyone recognize in this dowdy woman the beauty that once had been? "And a new Clotho," she said. "And Atropos, too." She changed briefly to the other forms. Gaea shook her head. "All three at once? Unusual!"

  Quickly Niobe explained the circumstances. "Now we have one more mortal thread to modify," she concluded. "Because of our inexperience—"

  "You seek help," Gaea said. "Very sensible of you. Come inside a moment while I change."

  Inside, Niobe watched while Gaea changed. She did not do it by removing her leafy green dress; instead she stood still, and the dress turned yellow with some red; then the leaves fell off, revealing brown bark beneath. Her hair turned white. She had progressed seasonally from summer through fall to winter, complete with snow.

  She moved—and the brown corrugations shaped themselves into the creases and pockets of a long jacket. The snow became a white hat; her hair was not, after all, that far changed.

  Gaea brought out a small pair of spectacles, mounted on a rod at one side. "You will want these, Lachesis."

  "A lorgnette? Those haven't been used for a generation!" Niobe protested. "Anyway, I don't need glasses!"

  "Humor me, Lachesis," Gaea said gently.

  Niobe shrugged and accepted them. "Then you will help?"

  "Of course, dear. We matrons must support each other. We can't depend on foundation garments."

  Niobe smiled dutifully. Gaea needed no support from clothing; she could assume any form she chose, young or old, beautiful or hideous, animal, vegetable or mineral. Seldom did she display her power in an obvious manner, but it was as deep and versatile as that of any Incarnation. Many mortals thought they could balk her in the short term, but in the long term she always had her way.

  "I am ready," Gaea said. "Take me there, Lachesis."

  Niobe took her hand, extended a thread, and slid them both along it. They arrived at an industrialized section of Connecticut, near a large mall. They entered and walked to a small booth set between an ice cream parlor and a mini-dozen movie theater.

  Above the booth was a banner saying TO HELL WITH YOU! Inside it was a bored-looking woman of about Niobe's own physical age. "That's the one," Niobe murmured. "Elsa Mira, Satanist recruiter."

  "Well, we shall allow her to recruit us," Gaea agreed. "Call me Ge; I'll call you Lack." She smiled faintly, as if the sun were masked by haze, and suddenly Niobe suspected that Gaea did indeed recognize her. But the Green Mother could keep a secret as well as any creature of the world.

  They approached the booth. "We really aren't interested in going to Hell," Niobe said. "But in fairness we thought we'd look at your literature."

  "Why, certainly," the woman said, coming alive. "Hell has had a very bad press, but we are working to alleviate that." She brought out a colorful brochure.

  Niobe looked at the cover. Two cute baby devils were on it: the Hellfire trademarks. Dee and Dee. One was male, the other female. As she looked, the male Dee lifted one little red hand and solemnly beckoned. She was startled, though she knew she shouldn't have been; naturally the minions of Hell had magic to splurge.

  "Perhaps you can read the print more clearly with your glasses. Lack," Gaea murmured.

  "Oh, thank you, Ge," Niobe said. "I keep forgetting." She raised the lorgnette and peered through the lenses.

  She stiffened. Instead of the cute picture, she saw a lens. She was being recorded on video!

  She moved the lorgnette aside. The little devil was beckoning her again.

  Now she realized why Gaea had asked her to use the glasses. They were enchanted to penetrate illusion! Already she knew that the Satanists were not merely showing their literature, they were getting a direct line on anyone who inquired. They were a good deal more professional than they cared to seem. That lens could be making a record of the complete encounter, and storing her picture in a computer file, complete with the retinal prints. Hell intended to have her number, all the way!

  Fortunately, she had never had her retinal prints taken. She had existed, as a mortal, in the country, where such things were not common. Hell would not be able to trace down her true identity by this device.

  Gaea opened the brochure. Niobe glanced through the glasses again, and saw that the pages were mere frames; the sinister lens remained. But without the glasses, she saw the inner material: scenes of happy, healthy people swimming, playing tennis, skiing, and watching the sunset. GOTO HELL, the print proclaimed, AND LIVE YOUR AFTERLIFE TO THE FULLEST!

  "Is there skiing in Hell?" Niobe asked doubtfully. "I thought it was hot."

  "Indeed there is skiing!" the recruiter said encouragingly. "Hell is large; it has climates exactly as the mortal realm does. Some regions are in perpetual snow."

  Actually, Niobe had known that, because of her prior experience as an Incarnation. She also knew that poor sinful souls were frozen as solid as spirits could be, in that snow, and that the only skiers were demons who delighted in skidding over perpetually horrified frozen faces. As with many of Hell's claims, the snow was a halftruth: it existed, but was not used as represented. The whole of Hell's recruitment campaign was spurious, and only sadly deluded people could fall for it. Unfortunately, it was evident that many did.

  But she was not here to show off her information about Hell. She was here to talk Mira out of delivering the bomb to the UN complex, thus eliminating the last of the potential couriers. She had to act like an ignorant skeptic until she had a better notion how to achieve her design.

  "I don't know," she said. "Skiing, swimming—I thought Hell was a place of punishment."

  "Oh, that's not so!" Mira exclaimed. "Hell is a place of rehabilitation! The evil-soiled souls are reprocessed to be good again. There are many incentives for a positive attitude."

  And many tortures for the damned, Atropos thought sourly.

  "But if people aren't good in life, why should they be good in the Afterlife?" Niobe asked. She knew the answer, but had to play the part.

  "Many people don't really think about it," Mir
a said. "They just go their way until it's too late. Those are the ones we are catering to—the ordinary, mixed people who are too busy to be absolutely good all the time. I mean, it's a lot of work to be good all the time, and frankly pretty dull, and probably unnecessary, too. We feel that most people would really be better off worrying less about the Afterlife and just getting their mortal lives in shape. Then, in Hell, they can sort it all out at leisure."

  Leisure? Eternity! Atropos snorted mentally. What a crock!

  "But shouldn't they be good in life?" Niobe asked.

  "Well, yes, of course. But it can be very difficult. Take the man whose wife is ignoring him and won't let him touch her. But she won't give him a divorce, either. Now if he finds an attractive young woman who likes him, is it really wrong for him to have an affair? His soul may suffer an accumulation of evil, but is it wrong? We Satanists think we should do what is natural and atone later."

  Niobe hadn't heard this one before. "Are you married?" she asked.

  Mira laughed. "Me? Of course not! Not anymore! I wouldn't put up with that sort of—that is, all the ridiculous things men demand. But the principle remains—"

  "Pleasure first, mortality last," Niobe finished.

  "Anyway," Mira said quickly. "We want you to see for yourself what kind of place Hell is. Why don't you come to our demonstration complex?"

  "Your what?"

  "We have set up a working mini-model of Hell, so that folk like you can tour it or sample it and see for yourselves what it offers. We Satanists want to spread the truth about Hell."

  "Well," Niobe said, glancing at Gaea. "I suppose we might just look—to be fair."

  Mira jumped up. "Right this way! I'll guide you on the tour myself!"

  This was exactly what they wanted: a long enough association with the woman to talk her out of what she was otherwise apt to do.

  I bet they get bonuses for each recruit they sign, Atropos thought cynically.

  Such as a trip to the United Nations building? Clotho thought. She had been fairly quiet, recovering from her experience of the prior evening; she was in the first flush of something like love, and the warmth of it tended to spill over and buoy the other two Aspects. But she had not forgotten their mission.